


Stone

by nightfall_in_winter



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF, Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Legends, M/M, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:20:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22403293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightfall_in_winter/pseuds/nightfall_in_winter
Summary: A gifted stonemason and his Prince...
Relationships: Oliver/Elio Perlman
Comments: 14
Kudos: 58





	Stone

*******

Barely audible were the crickets on that early summer night by the river. The warm grass whispered, and fireflies fluttered in the trees behind the watermills. The large stones, rolled downhill centuries ago, sank into the dusk at the skirts of the mountain.

Up above the peaks, the yellow stars flickered as they rose in the darkness. The crickets sang louder, the leaves rustled, and the valley bathed in the scent of lavender and honeysuckle. Above the steep cliffs, the moon rolled and stopped in awe, as if wondering whether to float down the wheat plain or roll over the soft grass beneath the lilacs and fall asleep there. Then she slid behind the ruins of the ancient dwellings and caressed the old tombstones, before ascending where she belonged: above the pointed towers of the fortress, with their deep circular windows and mossy walls.

Wise old Moon, where are the black horses and the ironclad warriors with their thin spears? The hunters chasing wild boars in the forest and drinking sweet wine by the fire at night? The enchanting palaces, the pagans who idolised animals, the barbarians who crossed the river heading south?

You know everything, Moon, as you appeared over the same stone walls thousands of years ago, hovering over the sleepy towers and the deep forests full of beasts and magical creatures. Do you remember the White city? The cruel men with dried blood on their leather clothes, who, at night, leaning on their spears, mourned for the distant ancestral land, left somewhere beyond the Great mountains?

You know, Moon, that the crickets will go silent, and the night breeze will sway the lilac branches, full of fragrant blossom and birds. And you know that The horseman, carved into the rocks, will come to life, kick the cracked belly of his horse, and his stone hooves will echo over the gardens and roofs of the ghost city. It will shake the whole valley, and by the first rooster craw at dawn, the horse will drink water from the river and the horseman will talk to the merpeople, emerging from its silent depths…

_Moon, do you remember that Master who carved this imposing horse and his rider in the rock? Do you remember his hammer and his gifted hand? Please tell me his story…_

*******

He was a tall, young man with golden hair, falling in strands over his forehead and two mysterious blue eyes burning with creative flame. He was a stranger among these men who were always thirsty for mead, wine and blood and his heart craved no riches, women or battle. He had no relatives, and no one knew how he came to the city. All day long he would hit the chisel with a heavy hammer, and when tiredness was taking over him, he would stop and turn his face down to the wheat fields. He would watch the timid harvesters moving between the grain piles and their songs would always warm his lonely heart. 

In the evening, he would hear behind his back the familiar bells of the two-horse carriage, carrying the King’s son. He was 19 years old, thin and pale, with curls darker than the fertile, crumbly soil of the fields and lips redder than the wild cherries in the woods of his homeland. He would stop the sweaty, large horses, as they were foaming at the mouth, and glance over the valley. Then he would stare at the Master's wide, muscular back for a long time, while his large, tanned hands were slicing through the stone.

When the King’s son was behind him, the Master trembled. Sweet juice ran down his veins, his heart thumped, and the hammer sang in his hands, while the stone softened like warm bread. He smiled as the King’s son occasionally threw small pebbles at him and laughed – а clear, bubbling laughter unlike any other sound the Master had heard in his life.

One evening when the prince came behind him, he suddenly turned back, and the boy sank into his sad blue eyes for the first time. The King’s son started waving his hands as if shouting for help, then he turned the carriage around and flipped the horses.

The Master could not sleep. He walked in the fields and listened to the crickets. Village lights flickered in the distance. Never have the stars above him blazed so brightly. After midnight, he laid down on the grass. He heard the heartbeat of the Earth, smiled, closed his eyes and extended his arm to the stars. And he saw the King’s son in his sleep – willowy and sweet. Beautiful.

"I heard a voice in my sleep.” The Prince said. “Someone was calling me. Was it you? Why did you call me?”

“Because you shine on me like a star in a summer sky and I would give everything to hear your laughter around me every day. ”

“I'll tell my father. ”

“Tell him. I am not afraid.”

”You want to pick the best fruit from the King’s garden. He will take your head for this and throw it on the rocks to the crows to peck your eyes out. These eyes! Let me look at them! Ah, you are so handsome! Tonight, when you saw me sinking into them, I choked and wanted to call for help. I'm a drowned man, Master! Here I am, lying wet on the sand. Have mercy on me! Bend over me and revive me with the warm breath of your lips! Are you a Prince? ”

“I'm not. ”

“Who are you? ”

“I'm just a stonemason from the poorest village in the King’s country. ”

“You're lying. ”

“Why should I lie to you? ”

“You're a messenger of the Gods. You can breathe life into stone. When your hammer commands, people and beasts come out of the rock. You have the power to conquer and you have enchanted me. Can I come with you? ”

“Where? ”

“Take me anywhere. The world is big.”

The Master embraced the Prince and shivered. He had never met anyone like him before ...

When the grapes darkened and golden leaves coloured the trees, the Master’s work came to an end. The King had just returned from battle and had gathered all his great men in the fortress to celebrate. The sun was setting faster. Last day. The Master threw away the hammer and the chisel, and slowly descended over the steps carved in the rock one last time.

The King’'s chariot came, basking in the light of the setting sun. The Prince was sitting to his left with his father’s arm around him. The King stood in awe and pointed towards the rock:

"Look! A man created this wonder. I’ll give him as much gold as he wants. Where is the Master?”

The two horsemen who galloped behind the chariot jumped from the horses and caught up with the Master, who was walking slowly toward the White city.

"Are you," The King said,” the Master? "

" I am. "

" What reward do you want for your amazing work?

“I don’t want anything, my lord!” The Master said shyly and looked down.

“ No!” The King nodded angrily. “Ask for a royal gift to honour your talent! _Anything…_ ”

Then the Master looked up and said boldly:

“With your right hand, my lord, you hold a sword that is deadly for your enemies, and with your left hand you stroke the hair of a son, who is more precious than all earthly treasures. I would be the happiest man alive to be gifted with your left hand.”

The King returned alone to the fortress and entered the palace numb with pain. When the old nobles arrived in the evening to kiss their King's hand and rejoice at his dinner table, they asked for the Prince.

The King suddenly woke up from his trance and whispered to the burly man next to him:

“Bring my son back! Bring me the Master's head!”

At dawn, the first roosters sang. The Prince, dry eyed and oblivious to all around him, poured wine in his father’s golden cup and stared blankly at the white-haired warlords. His heart was a dead bird in his chest.

And in the morning, before the larks sang and the dew gleamed in the tall grass, a dark-haired boy in white clothes climbed up the steps carved in the rock and wiped off a tear as he stood at the edge. Then he turned to the sun, whispered something and jumped.

When he fell, the rock cracked from top to bottom, and the horseman dropped his spear.

*******

**Author's Note:**

> Adapted from Angel K.'s version of an old legend about the Madara rider bas-relief which can be found here: https://massolit.club/book/madarska-legenda


End file.
